Here is a story that's stranger than strange.
Before we begin you may want to arrange:
a comfortable seat,
and maybe some cocoa and something to eat.
I'll warn you, of course, before we commence,
my story is eerie and full of suspense,
brimming with danger and narrow escapes,
and creatures of many remarkable shapes.
So if you've no time for the whimsical things,
for pirates and gadgets and creatures and kings,
if you spurn the fantastic to never return,
then put this book down...
for it's not your concern.
Ah, you're still here. Then I'm grateful to you.
This book needs a reader, as all of them do.
Now Mortimer Yorgle, or "Morty" for short,
was a zorgle, perhaps, of a singular sort.
He was certainly pleasant, and friendly enough,
but his edges, I'd say, were a little bit rough.
For instance: His necktie was always
His trousers were striped with ridiculous dye.
On each of his hands he wore fingerless gloves,
and a rumpled-up raincoat was one of his loves.